


it couldn't wash the echoes out

by raedear



Series: it's such an almighty sound [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre-Slash, rescuing your rival from a kidnapping is a love language i'll have you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:56:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29905599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raedear/pseuds/raedear
Summary: Joe's had better weekends really. It's not hard, his weekends don't normally include being kidnapped, but here we are.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: it's such an almighty sound [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2198991
Comments: 37
Kudos: 218





	it couldn't wash the echoes out

**Author's Note:**

> crossposted from [tumblr](https://raedear.tumblr.com/post/645028343817863168/if-you-reblogged-this-bc-you-are-taking-prompts), for the prompt: 'Welcome back. Now fucking help me.'

Contrary to popular opinion, Joe does actually know how to keep himself out of trouble. He knows when to back off a mission if it gets too hot, and he knows exactly how much of himself to expose at any given time, and not an inch more. He knows how to cover his tracks, and how to blend back into normal society without issue. 

That’s what makes it so fucking galling that they picked him up in a _supermarket_ of all places. He wasn’t even on a mission, he was just buying cat food - they made him through sheer bad luck. Some combination of the wrong person spotting him at the wrong time. Yes, he knows he should have at least shaved his beard off before trying to blend back in, but really. He’s not that distinctive looking, and he was a hundred miles from his last op. It shouldn’t have mattered. 

None of this is a comfort as henchperson number 4 cracks a knuckle on his cheekbone. 

—

There are nicer places to spend his holiday than a dirty, cramped basement, but need must. (Well. Not needs. Circumstance.) Best as Joe can tell, as much as twelve hours have passed since he was taken. He’s missed mandatory check in, so at least someone will know something is wrong by now (if they don’t think he’s just slept through it. Again.). He knows he just has to sit-tight and wait, and someone will be along to extract him, but that’s easier said than done when his body is more bruise than skin and alarming mutterings about pliers and drills were had within his earshot. 

They haven’t offered him food or water, and the zip-ties holding his arms and legs to the chair are industrial strength. Bad signs all around and not a hope to be had, but he keeps as optimistic a mien as he can. What’s a little pain really, in the long run?

(A little pain can be a lot in the long run, and the throb of his knee is worrying him, but he doesn’t have the strength to spare for it at the moment.)

—

The door has two locks, the second of which sticks every single time. It gives Joe an extra second to prepare himself, breathing deep and even, before he bares his teeth at whomever enters and ignores the way his lip splits again with the motion. Blood on his teeth can only help his look really, and he needs any kind of edge he can get.

Hulking henchperson number 2 this time it seems, power drill in hand. Joe flexes his fingers to feel his wrists strain against the zip-ties, and prays for fortitude. 

He prays harder when HH2 revs the drill and he sees the bit spin. It’s serrated. His face is stony, but he can feel fear pool thick and viscous in his chest. 

Like the breaking of rain after a drought, the _pop-pop-pop_ of semi-automatic gunfire in the distance brings relief like Joe’s never known singing through his bones. 

—

He counts the seconds. There’s nothing else to do really. He twists and pulls at his restraints and ignores the slow slide of blood down his hands and breathes through the ache.

It takes six minutes for the door to shudder as someone tries to force it open. It takes an additional minute for them to come back with the key. 

Joe works with numerous incredibly talented people. There’s only a handful that could make it to him in that short a timeframe. Less still that could do it alone. He’s narrowed his options down to three names by the time the door actually opens.

Nicky di Genova wasn’t on his list, but he can’t say he isn’t happy to see him. 

As far as he knew, Nicky was overseas on an op, and wasn’t due back for at least another month. He should be embarrassed, really, that someone with so much disdain for him is seeing him in such a state, but relief is sweet and heavy in his throat, and he can’t help the slump of his shoulders at the sight of his wide eyes in the gloom. 

‘Welcome back,’ he says, flippant as he can manage. If it’s weak, Nicky pretends not to notice. 'Now, fucking help me out of these, would you kindly?’

He’s never been on the receiving end of so much of Nicky’s focussed attention before. He finds he doesn’t dislike it. Nicky gives him one firm nod and crosses the room in three long strides, flicking a butterfly knife from his pocket as he moves. He cuts Joe’s restraints with a surprisingly gentle touch, sliding his fingers between the hard plastic and his broken skin to keep them from cutting him further, and he helps Joe pull his hands forward against the resistance of his bruises and stiff muscles. 

He pretends not to see the way Joe’s hands shake, and it’s a kindness Joe doesn’t know what to do with. 

‘Can you walk?’ Nicky’s voice is quiet and clear, and the way his eyes flick to the abandoned power drill by the door is unmistakable. 

‘Not completely.’ The throb in his knee has long since coalesced into an ache, and Joe knows it won’t take much for it to buckle beneath him, for all he was spared the drill’s tender mercies. Nicky nods again, and helps him stand without further comment. 

Joe is far from new to all of this. This isn’t even the worst he’s ever been tortured. Somehow though, he doesn’t think he’ll be shaking this one off any time soon. He thinks back to how he had admired Nicky’s shoulders in his suit jacket all those weeks ago, and wants to tell his past self that they’re even nicer as a scaffold under his arm, holding him up as surely as the arm he curls around his waist. Nicky takes his weight with every step, and leads him from the room. 

—

Nicky wreaked an impressive degree of havoc in six minutes. Every corner they turn is spattered with blood. Bodies litter the floors; bullet casings are scattered like the bleakest confetti imaginable, but aside from a scrape on Joe can just about see on his wrist, there’s not a spot of damage on him. 

(If Joe “trips” over the body of HH2 with a particularly wet thud, that’s nobody’s business but his. Nicky says nothing, even as he takes more of Joe’s weight for the seconds it takes him to lift his less-damaged leg higher.)

They come to a flight of stairs, the door at the top torn half off its hinges, and Joe can’t take the silence anymore. 

‘I thought you were in Sicily?’ He can hear the wheeze in his own voice, and hopes the pain in his side is just a cracked rib and not a punctured lung waiting to happen. 

‘Plans changed. I was needed here.’ 

Nicky’s voice is soft as he painstakingly helps Joe up the stairs. It takes longer than Joe really wants to think about, and he has to blink away sparks and black spots by the time they finally reach the top. 

‘Did you finish your mission?’ He doesn’t even know why he’s asking, he knows if Nicky says anything remotely complicated he’s going to lose the thread of the conversation immediately. 

Almost as though he could read Joe’s mind, Nicky pauses, adjusting his grip on Joe’s waist. 

‘Something more important came up. Someone else can take my place there.’ 

Joe looks at him from the corner of his eye. His face is pale and resolute, and he looks back at Joe with clear, unblinking eyes. 

Well. That’s certainly something. Joe nods, slowly, and tries to smile. It pulls at his lip, and he can feel blood slide into his beard again. Nicky cups his chin with his broad hand and lifts his face to the light. Whatever he sees, his eyes go darker than Joe has ever seen, and he has to look away. It takes a beat for Nicky to let him go, and Joe tells himself he doesn’t miss the warmth of his hand. 

—

Time starts to fracture the further away they get from the basement. It’s sunny when they step outside, and the wind is cold. From the looks of it, they’re in an office park. His captors must have been relying on the weekend quiet to keep their secrets, it doesn’t look particularly rundown or abandoned. Whatever they had planned, it wasn’t going to last long.

Nicky pours him into the front seat of a car, and when Joe blinks next he’s got a seatbelt clipped across his chest and Nicky’s next to him in the driver’s seat. A rosary hangs from the rearview mirror. It doesn’t look like a company car, but Joe’s eyes are slipping in and out of focus, and he can’t pick out enough details to say for sure. 

He thinks he feels a hand brush his hair away from his forehead before the weight of everything catches up with him completely, but that might just be wishful thinking. 

He doesn’t think about the last time he saw Nicky. Not about the fountain, or the moonlight, or his kiss. 

He doesn’t. 

**Author's Note:**

> I have no self-control, don't judge me
> 
> I'd love to know your thoughts!
> 
> Catch me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/raedear_writes) and [tumblr](https://raedear.tumblr.com) <3


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